A Promise Kept

As each winter ends, we are given a promise. This promise comes in the bright yellow hues of daffodils and forsythia bushes. The promise is heard like a whisper as the daffodils push out of the ground and the first yellow flowers appear on a forsythia bush. You close your eyes and go to bed one night, and when you awaken the next day, the world is bathed in yellow! A bright, cheery, sun-filled yellow that seems to light the way. While the rest of the natural world remains a dull brownish grey, these flowers herald in yet another spring. As the trees start to bud and other bushes and flowers rush to catch up, the color of the sun-imitating heralds seems to quiet a bit. Their job is done.

Each spring, I drink in those brilliant shades of yellow. They warm my heart and re-awaken my soul. Spring is here! The daffodils and forsythia seem so abundant that for a while, it feels as if that was the only color we ever saw again; it would be enough. But the promise is more extraordinary than even the most brilliant shades of yellow can express! Spring and its rainbow of colors have now truly arrived. The promise of spring is kept.

The Home at the end of the Rainbow

My therapist suggested it.  A way of holding on while letting go.  

It was a strange exercise, but easy to do. Dispelling the myth that you can’t go home again.

My parents lived in the same house for 53 years. We moved there when I was just three years old. It was a place of safety, warmth, and comfort. It was the place where I deeply felt all the angst of my teen years. Where I hate you! was thrown at my father each time I felt misunderstood, and music would be turned up loud to express whatever was on my heart at that particular moment. It was the place where my future husband would kiss me after a long-awaited first date. It was a place of learning and growing, of misunderstandings and coming together.

That place was being sold. I had no control over who was buying it. I desperately wanted it to be someone with a family, to ensure its legacy of love continued. 

Instead, it was bought by a contractor who built an additional house on the property. What was once a comfortably sized home with a beautiful yard now contained two attached houses, a multi-car garage, and very little green space. It was impossible to drive by my parents’ old house and feel any nostalgia. Their home was gone, rendered unrecognizable.

I barely glance at it now when I drive by. The home I grew up in no longer exists in the physical world. It now only exists in my heart and mind. 

In the same year the house was sold, I lost 4 family members including my mother. I sought out therapy to process my grief.

The therapist suggested that I could go back and visit the house, in my mind, anytime I wanted. She suggested I picture each room and hold those memories anytime I needed to go home. 

It is not an exercise I do often, but it is a comfort when I do.

Because I grew up there and then visited there for most of my adult life, details of the house are etched into my memory. Over the years, countless changes and updates were made, and I remember all the before and afters.

Whenever my siblings and I would refer to our childhood home we simply called it, “171”, its street number became it’s lasting and endearing name.

When I pull the house back into existence, I can pick and choose which aspects I remember.  The more recent brick walkway is erased; instead, the walkway made of beautiful slate stepping stones reappears.  I climb the stairs and pause to touch the dark green front door coated with thick layers of paint. Thanks to my Dad, there was always a well-maintained American Flag proudly flying, except once a year when the Irish flag would appear. The red geraniums hanging from a basket on the overhang were my Mother’s touch. I ring the doorbell just to hear the old familiar chime. I didn’t need to ring the bell since we all had a key. We were welcome anytime, so I know I’m welcomed each time I imagine myself walking through the front door and into the home again. 

I remember what it looked like to a seven-year-old, a twenty-year-old, and a fifty-year-old. I remember the furniture, the light fixtures, the knick-knacks, wallpaper, flooring, and ceilings. The white flowers with orange centers on the pink wallpapered walls of my bedroom when I was nine. Following that the bigger bedroom with the cool purple walls that later were painted a warm yellow. I remember the view out the kitchen window of the beautiful backyard. The birch tree that became sickly and was cut down long ago is back. In my mind, it is strong and healthy—blowing in the breeze.

I can remember the voices of my parents talking to each other. Sometimes, I hear the TV as the nightly news fills the house followed by the Jeopardy theme song. Music might be playing on the record player in the dining room, filling the first floor with Irish music if it was my Dad’s pick, or country music if Mom had her way.

I can sit in the kitchen and talk with my mother. I can hurry out the front door and get into my father‘s gold 1970-something Pontiac as he drives me to high school.

I can relive any moment. I can remember trying to catch some sleep on the living room floor on the days leading up to my father’s death as we stayed with him until his last breath. I can picture every Christmas Eve spent there in that same living room. I can see my five-year-old self sitting on the shiny, diamond-patterned blue couch, with song sheets in hand as I sang along to ‘Christmas with Mitch Miller’, eagerly awaiting everyone’s arrival.

Outside I might be twirling around and playing as a three-year-old in the front yard, watching the cars go by. Other days I might be playing in the large, playground size sandbox my father built for me. I can see myself swinging on the swing, pumping my legs to try and swing high enough to reach the clothesline that ran from the house to the oak tree.

My memories of that place are vast.  I remember arguments and misunderstandings, frustrations, and sadness. I remember the hard times as well as the good.  The walls of that house held it all.  For over 50 years, that house contained two of the most significant people in my life, along with siblings, extended family, and friends. It was the kind of place where visitors were always welcomed.

The physical house is gone. Some of the people are gone. But the memories are all there, allowing me to visit whenever I choose. The key is an exercise of the imagination. It unlocks the door to a place where I am welcome anytime. I simply close my eyes, and I am home.

A 3 year old’s “why?”

I remember my Dad telling me a story of something I did when I was three. My dad, a recently retired Major in the Air Force, had invited a Lieutenant Colonel over for dinner.

I was sitting next to this man when I noticed something. I pointed to his arm and asked him why his skin was a different color than mine. When my Dad later told me this story, the impression I got was that he had been embarrassed by my question.

Reflecting on it now, I’ve come to understand that my Dad wasn’t so much embarrassed that I asked the question as he was by not having an answer. My dad had respect for humankind and had a diverse friend group. But my question caught him off guard.

That story popped into my head today, and I realized I have an answer for my three-year-old self.

I’ve recently started doing some online watercolor classes. I am learning about colors and the role using different colors plays in creating something beautiful. And the question I asked so many years ago came back to me. But this time, it was not overshadowed by embarrassment but instead filled with understanding.

Why would someone have a different color skin than me?

People have all different color skin because God is an artist. He has a whole palette of colors available to him, and he will not be limited to one color. When you ask a small child their favorite color, they often respond, “All of them!” God answers, “All of them,” too.

I can imagine my three-year-old self asking why he didn’t make purple, pink, blue, or green people? And I would tell myself it is because God saved some of the colors for sunsets and flowers and trees.

God is an artist who not only created color but knows how to use it in the most beautiful ways. Imagine how the world would be if we looked at each person, whatever color their skin may be, as a masterpiece created by Him!

Puppy Love

“Is it a boy or a girl?” “What’s his name?” “Can I say hello?”

We hear this each time we take our new puppy out for a walk.

As for what we see….we see smiles and then more smiles. Some offer a sheepish grin, some boldly walk up to us saying, “I need to see the puppy…he’s SO cute!!!”

When my grandson was born, I wrote about the baby phenomenon. How babies make people smile. People who would typically NEVER speak to you in passing on the street suddenly stop. They just need a glimpse.

Although I’ve owned puppies before, I don’t think I’ve ever been as aware of the power they hold. People turn to mush. While out for our walk, we’ve had at least three people slow down while driving past us, they put down their window and comment on the puppy. Grown men have been compelled to slow down and engage with a perfect stranger over a puppy.

Last week, I was walking the puppy, and a woman pulled her car over, got out, and asked if she could say hello. Yesterday, a teenager doing pop-a-wheelies on his bike slowed to tell me, “Nice dog!”

Our puppy is growing in leaps and bounds, and this wonderful and welcome interaction with strangers will soon end. He will become a dog and may even appear menacing. People who are crossing the street to see the puppy now may later be crossing the road to get away from the dog. That makes me a bit sad.

For now, I’m enjoying these puppy-promoted interactions. I love seeing the joy on people’s faces and watching social barriers dissolve in the blink of a smile.

It’s a beautiful season when the whole world seems smitten with puppy love.

Our Romeo part two

Romeo was a little fireplug of a dog. He was a scruffy Lhasa Apso who looked like an Ewok from Star Wars when his fur was growing out.

He failed puppy socialization class, and his distaste for other dogs continued for the rest of his life. But Romeo was a man of contradictions. If he ran into a dog on the street, he would snarl, snap, and appear ferocious. But if a dog entered our home….as they often did when we fostered…he welcomed them freely. Once inside, they were a member of our pack, and he offered no resistance.

Romeo was one of the best dogs I’ve ever seen around children. I trusted him completely, and he never once betrayed that trust. He loved to play with children and was gentle with babies. Kids responded to him immediately. They found a kindred spirit in him due to his small size and insatiable desire to play.

He enjoyed sitting with us when we would watch tv. In the winter, he was the softest, warmest blanket you could hope for.

We initially kept Romeo for my daughter, but he won us all over. Three years ago, our daughter got her 1st apartment. She wanted to take Romeo…it had always been the plan…but Romeo was older now. He couldn’t tolerate being alone, and his health was a concern. She reluctantly let go of the dream of taking him with her and did what was best for him.

Romeo developed separation anxiety when we all returned to work after things opened up following the Covid shutdown. He would often wake us up in the middle of the night. He needed a check-in….an assurance that we were still there and that all was right with the world.

He and I became fast friends. He was my constant companion. Not underfoot but always present. Keeping an eye on me.

When I was a kid, my dad always tried to get me to eat bananas. He often asked, ‘Would you like to share a banana?” As a kid, I couldn’t really be bothered to eat any fruit, but sometimes I would say yes, mainly because it pleased my father so much when I agreed.

Romeo loved bananas. Every day I would share my banana with him, and in that simple moment, my heart would be reminded of my dad. Romeo connected me to my past.

It wasn’t until he was gone that I realized how much he had shaped our world. When Romeo was around three years old, he began peeing on carpet. We couldn’t break him of it. So we put vinyl flooring down on our entire first floor for him.

In November of 2021, my mother went into hospice. That same week Romeo was diagnosed with a very serious heart condition. I was devastated. The vet said he could die at any moment. But….if they could get the right meds into him, he could possibly live up to two years. I begged God not to take my mother and Romeo at the same time. I was distraught. I very nearly lost it. The thought was so overwhelming that I needed therapy to get through it.

I knew I was losing my mother. I couldn’t lose Romeo too.

But we did find the right meds, and he kept plugging along for another year. In November of 2022, he went into heart failure. But in classic Romeo fashion, he didn’t let it faze him. He trotted into the exam room, and after the doctor performed an ultrasound, she looked at me and was astonished. “There’s no way,” she said, “that this dog should have been able to walk in here on his own steam! He is very sick. What a tough cookie he is!”

They added more meds and stabilized him again. The clock was ticking faster now, though. The first episode of heart failure indicates that it will happen again. And it did. 8 months later, while we were vacationing in NH, my friend called me. She was checking in each day with him, and he had been fine. Until he wasn’t.

“Romeo’s not doing well,” she said. Within a few hours of that call, I was back home along with my daughter and husband. Our insatiably playful dog was barely able to stand. Lifting his head was even too much. We took Romeo to the ER and got the news that I had been bracing for over a year and a half. They told us, “There’s no coming back from this.”

Romeo’s health had consumed the last 20 months of my life. His impending death colored all of my days. He had countless doctor visits, tons of meds along with diet and exercise changes, but he had kept on. Never losing his playfulness, joyful spirit, or appreciation for the people in his life.

Now though, it was time to let him go. Time to repay all the love he gave us with a love that puts his needs above our own.

Throughout the last 20 months, each time I would share the latest vet update with my daughter, she would declare, “Romeo is never going to die!” And it seemed that way. He beat the odds again and again. So even though I had been grieving his impending death for so long, there was still the thought that maybe he could rally again.

But it was evident in the ER. There would be no more rallying. He had managed to live for 20 months after his initial diagnosis, despite continued worsening….it was miraculous, really. But he had become a shadow of his former self.

I am realizing something now that he is gone. It was not in the way we were hoping for, but my daughter was right. Romeo will never die. He lives in our memories. It was not lost on us that Romeo had an enlarged heart. It seemed a physical representation of the love he embodied.

Romeo wasn’t the only one with an enlarged heart. His love caused our hearts to grow as well. He loved us, and we loved him. And love never dies.

Our Romeo part one

Twelve and a half years ago, the holidays found us in challenging times. Our youngest daughter was struggling. In that season, our world revolved around her. We were desperate to find something that would help her.

Three days before Christmas, we received an email from the Animal Rescue League of Boston, whom we had been fostering for off and on. They had a dog in the shelter named Violet. Violet was pregnant and due any day. The shelter would be on a skeleton crew over the holidays, and they wondered….would we foster her?

We had a full life. Five kids between the ages of 19 and 11. It was Christmas. The house was bursting with activity, decorations, and busyness. Who in their right mind would say yes to this?!

We couldn’t help but wonder, though….could this pregnant dog, bursting with life inside her, help our daughter? Could this experience provide her with a distraction, a focus, or a purpose?

We said yes.

On December 26th, just past midnight, Violet gave birth. We watched five beautiful puppies be born. The second one out was so big we thought it was twins. It was not. But it was the dog that would become our Romeo.

For 8 weeks, those puppies stayed with us. We really liked two of them, but my husband and I were determined to not keep any of them. We had recently put one of our dogs down and still had another dog at home. We brought them back when they were finally ready for their forever homes. All of them.

Our daughter had been working on us, though. There was one in particular who had stolen her heart. We called the shelter. “Wait…” we said. “We want that one back.”

And so Romeo came back home, only leaving us long enough to be neutered. Romeo and our daughter grew up together. She overcame her struggles, and Romeo was a big part of that journey. We will always be grateful for the gift we were given that Christmas. A perfect little puppy who made all of our lives better. Our Romeo.

Daisy

Her behavior had been changing, and it worried me.  

I often had thought of our dog, Daisy, as a ‘cat dog’.  She loved us when food or walks were offered.  She loved a belly rub.  But otherwise, she loved us when she felt like it.  

Greeting us in the morning….greeting as we came in the door, were optional in her mind.  She expressed her connection to us when she wanted to.  Dog stereotypes be damned!

But then things started to change.  She jumped a gate in our house that was there to keep her from going upstairs to the 2nd floor.  It was the middle of the night, and she had never jumped it before.  For a dog that has had arthritis since she was a puppy….this was unexpected.  

She started to come over to me, frequently putting her head on my lap and staring at me.  Another new behavior.  

Other subtle changes occurred and I started to wonder and worry.  What was going on?  

She had always loved to be outside.  Sometimes getting her to come in from the outside could be a hassle.  She was happiest when she could roll around in grass or mud or just lay in the sun.  But then that changed too.  She started to sit on the cement walkway, looking in at the house.  She swapped sleeping on the grass for sleeping on the porch and oddly wanted to be inside more than out.

What was going on?

I took her to the vet.  An exam was performed. The diagnosis was anxiety and medication was prescribed.  I questioned this diagnosis.  It didn’t make sense to me.  Sudden onset anxiety?  Why?  What would have triggered it?  The vet had no answers but seemed confident in her assessment.  When I continued to press for answers, she told me that Daisy was now a senior dog and perhaps there was some dementia involved.  

We began the meds.  She jumped the gate again.   I watched her every move and knew she wasn’t feeling right. I spoke with the vet again; she thought her behaviors were still consistent with anxiety.

And then she jumped the gate a third time.  Desperately she needed to be with us.  It was the middle of the night. My husband and I came downstairs and sat with her, but she couldn’t settle.  She was panting heavily.  

As the night turned into day, I called the vet.  She thought it was a reaction to the meds that Daisy had been using for anxiety.  I told her that didn’t make sense.  She had taken the same medication for arthritis pain in the past without any trouble.  The doctor suggested I stop the meds.  But the behaviors the doctor attributed to the medication were the same behaviors she had before the pain meds…only now they were worse.  Her advice didn’t sit right with me.  Clearly, I could not rely on her to figure this out.

After several hours of struggling with what to do, I called a local animal hospital.  We brought her in, and with a simple rectal exam, they discovered the problem.  

There was a mass.  An ultrasound revealed that it was quite large.  It encircled her spleen and pelvic area.  Hemangiosarcoma was suspected.  They sedated her to do a needle aspiration.  They tried multiple times, but the needle was filled with blood each time it came out.  This didn’t bode well. It meant blood vessels were involved providing this mass with an unlimited food supply.

The news was jarring.  I knew something was wrong with her.  I knew the original vet was wrong in her assessment.  But cancer?  

We’ve had Daisy since she was 8 weeks old.  We picked her over all the other adorable puppies online.  Other than arthritis, she has been an exceptionally healthy dog.  She’s only 8 years old.  We’ve never lost a dog that young.  

Yet here we were.  

More surprising than hearing she had cancer was hearing the time frame of her impending death.  Maybe a month?  Given the type of cancer suspected, the real threat would be how she might die.  The mass could rupture at any time, causing massive internal bleeding.  

We could try to get a month more with her.  They gave us medication to help her with the pain.  We began the meds.  But the huffing to try and get enough air, panting from pain, and staying close to us continued and worsened….she was clearly uncomfortable.  If you didn’t know what was happening, you might think she looked healthy and strong.  Her tail would wag briefly if a favorite person walked into the room.  But we were tasked to look beyond the disguise, beyond what our hearts wanted to see.  

She had behaved like TV’s Lassie.  She climbed mountains and forded streams (in the form of jumping a gate!)  to let us know she needed help.  

Taking her to the hospital wasn’t enough.  Giving her pain meds wasn’t enough. We had to love her enough to let her go.   

Our other dog, Romeo, has been fighting a terminal disease for a year and a half.  Knowing he has so little time left with us has been breaking my heart every single day.  Yet he’s still here!  Getting worse, but holding on.

I never anticipated that Daisy would go first.  She was four years younger than Romeo and outwardly seemed strong and healthy.  Yet here we were. 

Because of her independent spirit, I don’t think I fully realized how strongly  I felt about Daisy until it was time to let her go.  I have been mourning Romeo’s impending death for 18 months.  With Daisy, there was one month of mysterious symptoms and less than three days to say goodbye.  While I had been bracing for Romeo’s death, Daisy’s sneaked in.  

With Daisy around, I always felt safe.  She never had to come to my rescue, but I was confident she wouldn’t hesitate if I needed her.  With her shepherd-like bark, she sounded menacing.  If you were a small animal, she was deadly.  But to us, she was just Daisy.  A fur shedding machine who loved being outside just as much as she loved rotisserie chicken and new smells.  She was the first female dog we ever had. 

She was our girl.  Our sweet Daisy, and we will miss her. 

RIP Daisy:  also affectionately known as….. Dazer Tazer, Daisy Crockett, Do a little dollop of Daisy, Daisy Dukes and Daisy Girl.   

June 3, 2015 – July 1, 2023

You think too much!

“You think too much!” When this was said, I thought it was the stupidest thing I had ever heard! I considered it a ridiculous statement made by someone who had no clue what they were talking about.

It’s taken me over 40 years to begin to understand. She was actually right.

I was a teenager when my mother said those words to me. At the time, filled with the passion of youth, I was convinced that my mother had no idea what she was talking about. I thought she was telling me that I was crazy for thinking deeply about things.

Thankfully I did not say my thoughts out loud to her, but in my head, I was thinking….“Maybe you don’t think enough!”

I felt like I was surrounded by people that didn’t think. Didn’t want to think. Were too shallow to think.

Ah, misguided youth! I continued to feel she was wrong to have said that to me until the past few months. Until then, I’ve told the story many times, always presenting myself as the one who was misunderstood.

But recently, it has occurred to me that it was actually my mother who was misunderstood. She was right. I did think too much. I DO think too much. I worry about everything. I plan for everything. I consider everything. And all that thinking makes me anxious.

I have no doubt now that she saw that anxiety and was trying to steer me away from the very thing that was causing it. But her words were not able to compete with my vast teenage wisdom. I then allowed the teenager in me to be ‘right’ for a very long time.

It has started to dawn on me that there was wisdom in her comment. A few weeks ago, I began listening to a book entitled Living Untethered by Michael A. Singer. It’s an excellent, life-changing book, and I highly recommend it. He spends much of the book unpacking the trouble our thoughts get us into and how to find freedom from unhelpful thinking.

Hearing his words reminded me of my mom’s statement all those years ago. And suddenly, I understood. I saw my response for what it was, the self-righteous delusion of youth. That misguided youthful response has followed me into middle age.

I’m going forward now with a new appreciation for what she was trying to say.

Thinking isn’t wrong. But overthinking can cause trouble. And it is indeed possible to overthink. She knew this. And now I know it too. Thanks for trying, Mom. It took a while, but I hear you now.

Looking back at the Landslide

Ten years have passed since my father died. Ten years! Shortly after he died I wrote my first blog post. It was called, “A Landslide”.

In that post, I commented about how my Dad’s death felt like a landslide and I was suffocating under the debris.

I ended that post by considering what happens, over time, when a landslide occurs. In time, flowers push through the new earth and life returns.

It feels surprising to me that my father has been gone ten years. I don’t know how it’s possible.

I miss his physical presence. His ability to take over and take up a room. I miss his self-confidence. I miss his absolute complete amazement and appreciation of me, my husband and my kids. I miss knowing that if I ever got in a pinch all I had to do was call my Dad. He was a force to be reckoned with and that force was always on my side!

When my dad died, I poured my energy and time into my mother. It seemed like the best way to honor him and it helped ease the grief. Now they are both gone and I find this anniversary has things to reveal to me.

Ten years reveals that the loss can still make me cry. When I stop to think about it, it breaks my heart that they aren’t here.

But ten years reveals something else as well. I don’t constantly feel the physical separation their deaths caused like I used to. They have somehow become a part of me. It is as if they move and walk with me. I take them wherever I go.

Ten years ago I had hoped that life would return after the landslide. And it has. It’s a different life than before, but life is indeed present. Like the layer of the new earth that a landslide brings, both of my parent’s deaths brought new challenges into my life. A new way of living was required.

Initially, this new way of living felt heavy and unnatural. The vacuum created by the physical loss of them threatened to pull me under. Their deaths, their final act of helping me to grow, meant I had to stand on my own two feet fully and completely for the first time. I needed to learn to push through the grief each landslide brought and discover how to live without their physical presence.

A time of laying fallow was needed. Time was spent recovering from the seismic shift the landslide created.

Now, as I had hoped, new flowers are blooming. I’ve learned to stand, then walk and even dance again.

The Vigil

Ten years ago this week, the vigil began.

My father, barely coherent, drifted between this world and the next.

In a hospital bed on the first floor, my dad had already finished entertaining the last outside visitors he would ever have.

My siblings and I had started staying overnight at my parent’s house, sleeping on the first floor so my mother could go upstairs to bed and get some real sleep. Months before this, we began to circle the wagons around him and my mom. They were both worn out.

All of his life, he had been the one out in front, leading the way. He led the way even in death, but we were determined he would not be alone. He might have to go first, but we would travel alongside him for as long as possible. His path would be paved with love.

My dad had always loved music. He was known for only singing the first few words of a song and then loudly humming along to the rest of it. While his tether to this world was loosening, I played him two of his favorites. “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody” and “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”. When the songs ended, he smiled and said, ‘That was nice.’ He had instructed us that he wanted the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” played at his funeral. I played that as well. These songs, long associated with him, would now be the music that paved his path to heaven.

Several days before he died, my mother, sister and I offered to do the rosary with him. Although I was raised Catholic, I never really understood how to pray the rosary, but I knew it held meaning for him. Google came to our aid and we prayed through it with him. Although he wasn’t speaking much at that point, he appreciated the gesture and his lips sometimes moved as we prayed. His path to heaven was paved with prayer.

With only a few days left on this earth, his body continued to prepare to let go. This man, who even in his 80s had more energy than most…this man who commanded people’s attention wherever he went….stopped all activity. He stopped speaking and went to sleep.

At first, it truly was sleep. But the deep sleep one enters as they transition from here to there had begun. We watched and waited.

Until early one morning when rest gave way to death and all was quiet.

The vigil was over.

There’s an emptiness when a vigil is over. You came together for a purpose. You remembered. You prayed. You kept watch. But when that stops, when the reason for the vigil has been taken away….what does one do next?

It’s been 10 years since the vigil for my dad took place. Here’s what I’ve discovered. After a vigil, figuring out how best to remember the one who is no longer here can take some time. But remembering alone isn’t enough.

You must let go of the vigil and live.